'Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame,
Thy private feasting to a public fast,
Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste:
Thy violent vanities can never last.
How comes it then, vile Opportunity,
Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?'

"What would suit you?" queried Errington. "You find everything more or less of a bore."

"Ah, my good little boy!" broke in Duprez. "Paris is the place for you. You should live in Paris. Of that you would never fatigue yourself."

"Too much absinthe, secret murder and suicidal mania," returned Lorimer, meditatively. "That was a neat idea about the coffins though. I never hoped to dine off a coffin."

"Ah! you mean the Taverne de l'Enfer?" exclaimed Duprez. "Yes; the divine waitresses wore winding sheets, and the wine was served in imitation skulls. Excellent! I remember; the tables were shaped like coffins."

Absinthe, O my lively liquor,
It seems, when I drink you
I inhale the young forest’s soul
During the beautiful green season.
Your perfume disconcerts me
And in your opalescence
I see the full heavens of yore,
As through an open gate.
What matter, O refuge of the damned,
That you a vain paradise be,
If you appease my need;
And if, before I enter the gate,
You make me put up with life,
By accustoming me to death.

The man let the water trickle gently into his glass,
and as the green clouded,a mist fell from his mind.

Then he drank opaline.

Memories and terrors beset him. The past tore after him like a
panther and through the blackness of the present he saw the
luminous tiger eyes of the things to be.

But he drank opaline

And that obscure night of the soul, and the valley of
humiliation, through which he stumbled, were forgotten.
He saw blue vistas of undiscovered countries, high prospects
and a quiet, caressing sea. The past shed its perfume over him,
to-day held his hand as if it were a little child, and to-morrow
shone like a white star: nothing was changed.

He drank opaline.

The man had known the obscure night of the soul, and lay
even now in the valley of humiliation; and the tiger menace
of the things to be was red in the skies. But for a little while
he had forgotten.

Green changed to white, emerald to opal: nothing was changed.

That text can be found on the track "Portals of opium" by the underrated and no longer active project Elijah`'s Mantle: Elijah's Mantle - Betrayals And Ecstacies (CD) at Discogs.
The album dealing with decadence features a quote on the back which might appeal to some readers here: "The true Decadent believes that faith in any kind of progress is misplaced; there is no better world to come, which is still to be made by yet another revolution. He accepts also that salvation is highly unlikely to be found at the personal level".